THE EQUALIZER MEETS THE PUNISHER
by BLAKKSTONE
Summary: Two men. Different paths. One goal: justice. Will they work together or will their differences cause a clash?
1. Chapter 1

_**The Punisher and The Equalizer belong to their respective copyright holders. This is is fanfic. No money will be made from this.**_

**THE EQUALIZER MEETS THE PUNISHER**

**South Bronx - New York City**

**The Summer of 1987**

Ricardo Villalobos smiled as the teenagers walked in his convenience store. A group of boys coming in for some cool drinks after a basketball game. They were grimy and sweaty. One kid was carrying a basketball. Blacks, Puerto Ricans. Laughing and teasing each other. He knew these kids. Good kids from the neighborhood.

Mister Villalobos had a son. Julio. He remembered when he was that age. He was in college these days. Ricardo patted his round belly. He barely remembered being in that good a shape. His wife had never minded. She always used to say he was "comfortable", like a cushion.

His belly was growing faster than his profits, that was for sure. He shook away the thought. He told himself to keep the negativity away for once. It was a beautiful day and the kids were having fun.

"Hey, mister Villalobos!" One of the kids said, a black boy, putting down an ice cold soda on the counter.

"How you doin', Jake? Tough game?"

"Not really, mosta these guys suck!"

"Hey, you're no Magic Johnson," another kid said.

"I don't need to be to kick your butts!" Jake answered defiantly.

"Now, now, boys. Play nice. No fighting. There are sore losers, but also bad winners, Jake."

"I know, I know, it's just-"

The conversation stopped as a group of young men, in their 20s, walked in the store. T-Shirts. Jean jackets. Leather coats. Bandannas. All of them were Latino.

The Perros Locos. A street gang. Ricardo's heart sank. He knew all too well what was coming.

"Hey, Senior Rico! How's it hangin', man?" One of them asked.

Ricardo looked down and didn't answer.

"I asked you a question, Senior Rico!"

There was already menace in his voice. Ricardo cleared his throat. He wanted to speak. To see he couldn't afford the protection money.

"I-I can't-I don't-"

He was scared. For himself. For the kids in the store who froze in silence. Part of him was ashamed of this fear. But they were young, angry and violent. And he didn't have what they wanted.

"Well," the group's mouth piece said, "see, kids, that's just bad manners!" The gang member said cheerfully to the children. "Mister Villalobos needs to understand respect! He needs to understand that certain things are expected of him! He needs to understand not to let people down!"

Ricardo raised his head. He looked the young man in his eyes. The Perro Loco was not much older than his own son. But the eyes... Cold. Hard. Like a gun. No mercy would be found in those eyes.

"Please," Ricardo started, "Please, you have to-"

"I have to? I _have_ to?" The young thug shouted, disbelief in his voice. His arms shot out over the counter and he grabbed Ricardo's shirt. "You wanna gimme _orders_, old man, huh? Tellin' me what I _have_ to do, is that it, huh?"

"No, please, I-"

"Hey, leave him alone!" Jake said, "Why you-"

Jake was cut off because another member of the Perros backhand slapped Jake hard and he fell down. That didn't stop the gang member who began kicking the boy in the ribs. Once, twice.

"Jake!" Another boy screamed. That earned the child a vicious uppercut. The kid's head snapped back and he crashed heavily on the floor.

The Perro Loco then pulled out a switchblade.

"Anyone else wanna mouth off, huh?" Switchblade asked.

The children were terrified. The eyes were welling up. But they didn't cry. They didn't move. They didn't make a sound.

"Leave the kids alone!" Ricardo shouted, "Let them go!"

Ricardo's face was then slammed violently on the counter. He then felt two more pairs of arms hoist him across his counter and he fell on the floor on the other side. He was dizzy. He was hurting. He was scared. Soon, he heard his cash register open. They were taking his money.

"Kids, this how you teach somebody respect!" The pack leader said.

And they started kicking him. In his stomach, his ribs, his face. It seemed to last for hours. He then heard glass breaking, other noises. They were trashing the store. Knocking down display cases. Then he heard nothing. And felt nothing.

**The leader of the small pack of gang thugs looked down at the unconscious man. The Loco Perro was high on the violence. His eyes were wild, his breath was quick.**

"Nobody tells me what to do, old man! Nobody! And you kids! If you tell anyone about this, we kill your mothers! Ya got that! Come on, boys, let's go! Let's get outta here!"

After the Loco Perros left, the kids rushed over to Ricardo.

He wasn't moving.

**Two days later**

**Noon**

**Manhattan – a coffee shop**

Julio Villalobos was waiting for his appointment. His coffee was almost untouched.

He'd just left the hospital to see his father. Julio fought back tears of rage. Not here. It wasn't the time for tears. It was time for trying to solve the problem.

Julio remembered the newspaper ad:

_Got a problem? Odds against you? Call the Equalizer. 212 555 4200._

That simple. Maybe it was a waste of time, but Julio had to try _something_.

"Mister Villalobos?"

Julio was startled. The voice came from behind him. Julio turned around and stood.

Julio was actually taller than the other man, which, for some reason, he didn't expect. The man actually looked more like a banker or a CEO: white man, in his 50s, silver hair, high end suit and tie. Slightly pudgy-"comfortable" like his mother used to say-clean shaven, clear eyes, between blue and silver.

"Robert McCall?" Julio asked.

"That's right," the man said with a pleasant smile. "May I sit down?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

There was a short silence. Robert McCall didn't press on. The waitress came over. Mr. McCall ordered tea. He waited. Julio cleared his throat.

"Mister McCall...I think I need your help," Julio started.

"Well. Let's hear about your problem and I'll see what I can do."

The man had an upper class British accent and a soothing voice. A reassuring presence. Julio took a deep breath.

"My father owns a convenience store in the Bronx. This local gang, the Perros Locos, terrorizes the neighborhood. Muggings, robberies, assaults, home invasions, car thefts, maybe even murders. They deal drugs on street corners. And they tap local businesses for protection money."

"Your father was a victim of that extortion racket?"

"Yes. It's been going on for a while. Two days ago, they came to his store. I...I don't what happened, they...beat him. They beat him so badly, he's been in a coma ever since."

"I'm truly sorry."

"Thank you, Mr. McCall. They even attacked these twelve year old kids that were in the store. One boy has broken ribs. The other one has a concussion and broken teeth. The other boys are scared to death."

"Why haven't you gone to the police?"

"I did. I tried to explain what happened at the local precinct. Nobody wants to testify. I wasn't there, so I'm no good as a witness. And people who confront this gang...Bad things happen to them. A few months ago, there was this mechanic who didn't want those guys dealing drugs in front of his garage. He yelled at them to leave. The following day, his garage was burned down and someone shot him on his doorstep. He almost died. He moved his family out of the neighborhood. No witnesses. But everyone knew who did it."

"But nobody could prove it."

"That's right. That's one of many stories. Too many. This isn't just about me. This is a whole neighborhood, living like hostages in their own homes. Many people just leave because they can't stand it."

"Understandably so."

"I-I don't know who else to turn to."

"That is often the case for people who ask for my services."

"What exactly do you do, Mister McCall? Are you like a private investigator?"

"What I do is similar to that, somewhat. But, it's not quite that. For one, there is the question of my fee."

Julio felt nervousness at once. "How much?"

"Nothing. Not one cent."

"Why?"

"That's an interesting question, actually. Simply put: you need my help and I'm willing to give it to you. My reward lies elsewhere, hopefully."

"You almost sound like a priest. Sounds like you're talking about heaven or something."

McCall paused and smiled. A sad smile, Julio thought.

"Something like that, yes."

"Ok. So, how will take on this problem?"

"I've learned that before I undertake any task, I must gather enough information. Once I have done that, I'll come up with a few ideas that will help bring those hooligans to justice."

Julio, for some reason, believed that this man could help. He couldn't explain it exactly. There was still some skepticism lurking in his mind. But he thought of his comatose father. He had to trust someone. He didn't have a choice. And this McCall had already given this more attention than the police.

"All right, Mister McCall. So what now?"

"I'll get to it. I'll call you as soon as something develops."

Both men stood and shook hands. And they went their separate ways.

**Robert McCall soon went back to his Jaguar.**

He admired the young man's astute mind.

McCall knew deep down that, perhaps, he was beyond redemption. He had seen and done too much a member of The Company. A spy. A covert operative. Many times, an assassin. McCall spent decades doing dirty work in the shadows. It cost him his marriage. It kept him away from his family. It nearly cost him his soul. He retired before losing what little humanity he had left.

Maybe McCall couldn't atone for past sins. Maybe it was far too late for that. But he could try and help people with those skills he acquired over time.

People like Julio Villalobos.

Like he told the young man, he had to know what he was up against.

Before starting his car, he used his car phone. He thought he could use some assistance on this case.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two hours later**

**Robert McCall's apartment**

McCall let Mickey Kostmayer enter his apartment.

Mickey was a still active member of The Company. They've been through hell and back together when they were both running secret ops together. Mickey was a white man in his late 30s. He was slender and fit and dressed much more casually than McCall. He was wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt and running shoes. Because it was the summer, he didn't wear what was almost a uniform for him: army surplus jacket and a wool winter hat to cover his somewhat unruly light brown hair.

Despite still being active in the Company, Mickey always seemed to have time to help out an old friend. This time, he brought a file. They sat down at McCall's dinner table to look over the information.

"It took some doing, McCall," Kostmayer said, "But I used the agency computer to dig up what I could about those jokers."

"Well done, Mickey. Let's have a look at what we have here."

"Takin' on a street gang all by yourself?"

"I'm not all by myself, you're here aren't you?"

Kostmayer let out a small chuckle.

"The Perro Locos. A growing street gang involved in all sorts of unsavory business. Drugs, extortion. Membership between fifty and hundred. Suspected in many serious crimes. Assaults and murder. Very few of their members have been arrested. Fewer still have been jailed. Witnesses usually disappear or change their story. Their leader is an Esteban Escobedo. El Perro Gordo."

"Big Dog. Head of the Mad Dogs. Cute."

"Their activities is anything but 'cute', Mickey."

McCall then told him about Julio Villalobos.

"Those dirt bags," Kostamyer said.

"Well said. The second in command is a 'Cuchillo' Valdez. Then you have 'Sangre' Sanchez."

"Knife and Blood. Lovely," Kostmayer said.

They kept looking through the file. Suspected hangouts. Known associates. There was a lot of information.

"How do we play this?"

"We need to familiarize ourselves with the terrain. See if we can gather more Intel."

"Cops won't help and the locals are scared stiff. We gonna need be on our own?"

"Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

"Can't argue that."

**Late evening**

**South Bronx**

McCall and Kostmayer thought it would be wiser not to use the Jaguar for surveillance in the South Bronx. They took a beat up van advertising a non existing plumbing company. Mickey was driving.

Many of the businesses were boarded up. There were signs all over: "For sale", "Closed for business." There were a few constructions sites. Even buildings set for demolitions. McCall took it all in.

"Looks like people are gettin' the Hell outta Dodge," Kostmayer said.

"There seems to be some hope for urban renewal, though. I can't help noticing all those cranes, all those real estate projects. There certainly seems to be much of that sort of activity going on here."

"Among other things."

They drove around in silence for a while. Trying to get a feel for the neighborhood. It was quiet, but not peaceful. The two men had been in enough hot spots in the world to recognize the feeling. It was like a curfew in an occupied territory. People here were hostages in their own homes. It was eerie and tense all at once. It was quite unpleasant. McCall soon noticed something. Something was nagging at his mind. He wondered if he wasn't being paranoid at first...He soon decided to act upon it.

"Stop here, Mickey, I'll make a phone call. In that booth across the street."

"Here? Who? Why?"

"I'd rather not say for now. Let me make the call. If later on, I'm proven right, you'll understand."

"You're the boss."

Kostmayer stopped the van and let McCall. He couldn't rid of that intuition. He needed to see it through. He made his phone call. It was brief. After he hung up, part of him felt ridiculous. He paused for a while, he gave his hunch another second's thought and was distracted for that second. As he got out of the booth, and was walking towards the van, he heard behind him:

"You lost, old man?"

He turned around to see two men. Young. Early 20s. He couldn't be sure if they were gang members or independent street punks. He cursed silently. He'd dropped his guard for one second and now he was being _mugged_. He was slightly annoyed at himself.

One of them spoke: "Tell ya what, old man, give over your wallet and that watch, we let you go in one piece."

"Yeah," the other one said, "It's a generous offer."

Then, another voice behind him. "You should accept it. It's a limited time offer."

There were four of them. All of them were grinning. They had bloodlust in their eyes. He had no time for this.

"I have a better offer," McCall said, turning back to the first two.

"What's that?" One of the muggers asked.

They didn't see McCall as a threat, they saw a man in his fifties, a white man, who would be terrified by the sight of these scary ghetto criminals. So they were close. Their mistake.

He kicked the one on the right in the groin. McCall knew that waves of shock and nausea would keep that one preoccupied for a moment. Before that one fell, the other still shocked, froze. McCall jabbed him in the eye with his right thumb. The youth yelled out in pain and surprise. His hands went to his face.

"Ah! Son of a-"

"Watch your language, sonny!" McCall said before punching the foul mouthed would-be-mugger in the kidney. That put the hooligan down.

The other two were about to move on him when they were both bowled over by a human missile. Kostmayer had run across the street from the van, climbed on the hood of a parked car, jumped and landed on them both, blindsiding them.

All three went down.

Kostmayer got up first, the other two were still confused, trying to get up. He grabbed them both by the hair, having a handful of hair in each hand and bashed their skulls together as hard as he could. The impact sounded like a collision between flying coconuts. That stunned them. He let go of only one, keeping his hold on the other. He sent his knee in his adversary's midsection. Still grabbing the hair with his left hand, he sent a right hand cross on his enemy's temple. Knock out.

The other one was coming back to his senses and pulled out a switchblade.

McCall was about to warn his comrade as the man made a clumsy stabbing move...which Kostmayer anticipated and side stepped. Mickey blocked the attacker's right arm with his left, twisted the wrist outwards with both hands, making the knife drop, head butted the criminal on the nose, breaking it. The former knife-man went down. Mickey finished it with a kick on the side of the head.

Kostmayer looked at his handiwork and had a smile.

"Happy?" McCall said.

"I thought we were in for a night of boring surveillance. This little workout was a nice surprise," Kostmayer said.

"I'm glad that you're glad, Mickey. Thanks, by the way."

"Don't mention it."

They checked their unconscious sparring partners for a clue to ID them. After a couple of seconds:

"Those tattoos," Kostmayer said, "On this guy's forearm."

"Perros Locos," McCall said, "Good."

They went back to the van.

"Nice tackle. You would have made a fine football player. Or rugby."

Kostmayer chuckled. And they went back to driving around, seeking out Perro Loco locations. Soon:

"McCall. That abandoned warehouse. It was in the file as a one of their spots."

"Yes. Yes, you're right. I think we should-"

Then something unexpected happened. A window from the second floor of the warehouse shattered and something flew out. A human body. And it landed in an ugly heap on the pavement. Then, more sounds erupted.

"What in the bloody hell?"

"That's gunfire, McCall. We stumble across some kinda gang war?"

"I have no idea. Whoever it is, they're serious. That's automatic fire. Sounds like an Uzi."

"What do we do?"

"The sensible thing would be to call the police."

Then, the shooting stopped. Completely. Then they saw something else. On the roof. They heard shouts. They saw a man. Then, two men. Then, they saw...

"Holy crap!" Kostmayer said.

"He's dangling that man above the pavement! Let's go!"

McCall and Kostmayer both jumped out of the van and ran towards the warehouse on the other side of the street. McCall had pulled out his trusty Walter PPK pistol. Kostmayer had a 9mm Beretta 92F.

McCall knew he was jumping in to possibly save the life of a Perro Loco thug. A man who'd probably robbed and hurt innocent people. But he couldn't stand a watch a man get murdered in cold blood and do nothing. Not anymore. He was no longer who he'd once been. At least he was trying.

Kostmayer was probably against them getting involved in helping out that Perro, but he kept quiet and McCall was silently grateful.

They went up the fire escape. They could hear screams. The man was begging: "No! Please! Don't let me fall! No! Stop!"

McCall was breathing hard and his legs were burning. Finally, they made it to the roof.

They saw the back of a man. A tall man, over six feet tall. Broad shoulders. Black combat skin tight combat suit. Body armor. An Uzi and a SPAS-12 automatic shotgun were slung on his bag. Pistols in thigh holsters. He was holding the Perro Loco above the street by the ankles.

"Stop it!" McCall shouted, gun at the ready. "Let him go. On the roof!"

The man in black said nothing. He tossed the gang member on the roof like a rag doll.

"Mickey," McCall said

Kostmayer jogged over to the gang member. The thug was stunned. Mickey dragged him away, pistol whipped him on the temple and knocked him unconscious. McCall had a clear shot at the mystery man.

"Your lucky day, pal, "Kostmayer said, turning the Perro over on his stomach and putting his knee on his back. Just in case.

"Now turn around!" McCall said, "Slowly! Hand in the air."

The man in black said nothing. And did as he was ordered.

"Whoa," Kostmayer said.

"My...God," McCall said.

They had a better look at the man. White. Black hair. Even in the near darkness of the evening, they could see his cold blue eyes. And something else.

The large, white skull painted on his body armor.

They were looking at The Punisher.

"Of course," McCall said, "Automatic weapons, targeted street gangs..."

"You're not cops," The Punisher said, "You're not shooters either. Who are you?"

"What makes ya so sure we're not shooters?" Kostmayer said?

"You're not shooting," Punisher said.

"Yeah. There's that..." Kostmayer said.

"And we won't shoot either," McCall said, lowering his Walther.

"McCall, what the Hell..."Kostmayer said.

"He's not the enemy, Mickey. Stand down," McCall said in a low, calm, but steely voice.

Kostmayer reluctantly did as he was told. He lowered his pistol.

"Now, then," McCall said, "I suppose that the police will be here any moment and I certainly wouldn't to have to try to explain my presence at a gang slaying. I suggest a truce so we can sort this out, yes?"

The Punisher lowered his arms. He looked at McCall and at Kostmayer. He said nothing for a moment. And then:

"Follow me."


	3. Chapter 3

**Minutes later**

**Apartment in a derelict building**

McCall, Kostmayer and The Punisher were in what Punisher called a safe house. Their vehicles were parked in a nearby alley. McCall and Kostmayer didn't have much to steal if made off with the beat up old van. Punisher had a similar van, but he assured them it was "temper proof."

The Equalizer believed him.

They left the unconscious gang member on the roof of that warehouse for police or to spread the news about The Punisher.

"Like what you did with the place," Kostmayer said.

Castle said nothing.

I was a small apartment. There was running water and power, since there was a functioning refrigerator. The three men were sitting at a small table in the kitchen.

McCall knew all about this man, The Punisher. His name was Frank Castle. He was once a proud member of the United States Marine Corps. He served several tours in Vietnam. He was a sniper of superlative skill. He had a wife, a daughter and a son. Maria, Lisa and Junior. Then, one day, after Captain Castle was done with the war, he took his family to a picnic in Central Park and they stumbled upon Mafia business. The mobsters shot at the Castle family, to eliminate witnesses. Frank Castle survived. Hunted down and killed the men responsible.

He hasn't stopped since. He's been going after gangsters, drug dealers, pimps, sex offenders...All manners of disreputable people. People who had it coming.

Frank Castle dedicated his life to the eradication of crime. And somehow McCall had to reason with him. There was long silence. They hadn't even introduced themselves.

McCall spoke first:

"Mr. Castle, I'll be honest with you: I am very tempted to let you kill those scum. In normal circumstances, I would have no problem with the fact that you would exterminate those vermin. I would probably be going about my business, reading about it in the morning paper, think 'Well done' and have a delicious breakfast."

Castle said nothing. His face was cold, unreadable. His eyes were piercing. He was being more patient than usual already. McCall went on.

"However, I can't let you do that. Someone here asked for my help. I promised to help him. He's a decent young man. Now that I know what your goal is, if I let you kill those men, I'll be an accomplice to murder. And, by association, so would the young man, since I now represent him. You and I, along with Kostmayer, we are what we are. But that young man, he is not...like _us_, you understand. It's a matter of principle."

Castle said nothing. He stood very still. McCall held his stare. He could understand why most men were terrified of The Punisher. But McCall has been face to face with hard men before. He wasn't intimidated.

"You're the Equalizer," Castle said. His voice was low growl. As cold and hard as a grave.

"Yes, you've heard of me, then."

"I make it my business to know about all of the players on the streets. You help innocent people. For free. You help them put away the guilty."

"I do my best."

"MI-6?"

McCall smiled. "Don't let the accent and the Walther fool you. I was a...Company man. Like Kostmayer."

Castle said nothing for a second. Two. Ten. Then:

"The Perros Locos. They destroyed a lot of lives here. I've been here a week. Gathering Intel. Watching over them. Even spoke to some locals. The cops around here don't seem to do much about them. They have to go down."

"I agree completely," McCall said, "It's a question of _how _we can put them out of these people's misery. I may have a plan. It's going to require your help and your patience."

Castle said nothing. And with one nod, McCall knew he could expose his plan. Which he did.

"If that doesn't work," McCall said, "Then, we'll fall back on the last resort."

Castle looked at McCall and Kostmayer. And gave one nod.

McCall talked about the Villalobos family and exposed his plan. Castle listened without a word.

"All right, McCall," Castle said, "We'll do this your way. For now."

"I appreciate it, Frank, really," McCall said.

"I'm kinda surprised you accepted that easily," Kostmayer said, "You don't seem to be big on compromise."

"What McCall said about the Villalobos kid," Castle said, "We should try to keep him clean. Until it's not possible anymore."

"Thank you," McCall said. He stood up, so did Kostmayer. McCall said: "We have work to do. We should meet again tomorrow morning. We'll exchange notes then."

Castle nodded once. And said:

"I hope this Equalizer thing is working for you, McCall."

That took McCall off guard: "What do you mean?"

"I'm pretty sure there was a time you would have joined me in killing those scum. Something changed you. I know. I've seen it happen. In Nam. On the streets. Hardcore soldiers who want to give up killing. Hit men who find religion and wanna hang up their guns. Blood stains deep, McCall. It's hard to wash off."

McCall looked at Castle for a second. "Yes, I know."

"And the world needs guys like us," Castle said.

"Does it? Does it really?" McCall asked, "I've seen so much death and misery. So much of that seemed unnecessary. Maybe it's that some of us...don't know how to be anything else than what we are."

The Punisher was silent for a moment. This man tried to be a peaceful family man, McCall thought, and the unthinkable happened to him due to random violence. He reverted to what he knew best: waging war.

Was McCall that different? Was there that much of chasm between The Equalizer and The Punisher? McCall's own son, Scott, had told him once: "You still carry a gun. You still slam people against the wall." Those words were painful, maybe because there was some truth to them. Maybe McCall couldn't wash the blood off his hands. But there was one key difference between him and the Punisher: he was willing to try not to add to it. It wasn't much, but it was something, wasn't it?

They fixed a time and place for the next morning. Castle gave his word that he would hold off on his planned termination of the gang. It would have to be enough.

McCall and Kostmayer left the apartment.

Later, in their van, Mickey was driving:

"Well," he said, "This turned out to be an interesting evening."

"Indeed," McCall said, "What did you think of Mr. Castle?"

"Definitely could see why he scares the crap outta people. But he doesn't seem as nuts as his rep claims he is."

"Yes, I found that somewhat unsettling."

"Why?"

"Either he is so insane that we can't see it...or you and I are as mad as he is."

"Could be he's not bonkers at all. What happened to his family...I gotta say, I see where he's comin' from."

"I'm afraid I agree with you, Mickey."

"So...Think he'll keep his word? About not killing these street gang jerks?"

"I hope so. And I can't do any better than hope."

McCall had to trust one of the most wanted criminals in the world for his plan to work. And he couldn't focus too much on that. There was much to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Night time**

**South Bronx**

The Punisher was on the street. He was on the hunt. He was looking for Perros Locos.

He'd given his word to McCall. He respected the older man. A warrior. A soldier on the same side.

A believer.

Frank Castle remembered a time when he believed. In justice. In right and wrong. In the church. He'd even studied to be a priest, but it wasn't for him. He remembered being a patriot. Volunteering for the Corps. For Vietnam. When so many guys tried to dodge the draft.

Frank Castle had lost a lot in Nam. Illusions. Faith. He still had some left. When he came back to his family, he believed he had a shot at happiness. It'd be difficult. But somehow, he wanted to believe the Castle family could pull through.

Even after their deaths, he believed he could get justice through proper channels. He was wrong.

Somehow, despite all he must have seen and done, despite his disillusions, McCall retained some faith in humanity. Much more so than Castle himself anyway. The Equalizer was older, but _at least_ every bit as lethal as The Punisher, that was obvious. The Punisher had met too many soldiers and spooks in his life to be blind to that. That Kostmayer was dangerous as well. Fast. Agile. Skilled. Tough. Those two guys were serious, no doubt about it.

In a few short seconds, they'd earned Castle's respect. And trust. And Castle didn't give those things lightly. He almost didn't give them at all. McCall was sure of his plan, but he also planned ahead if it didn't work and they would take the direct approach. First, though, no killing for McCall's plan.

But, he couldn't just spend an evening doing nothing knowing those Perros Locos bastards were out there, hurting others.

It was against everything he was. Besides, he had a nagging suspicion triggered by things that had been told to him.

What he was doing, the tracking, to takedown, that was only the last part of his campaign. He had to start with intelligence gathering. He did that, several days before. Different techniques. Surveillance. Speaking to locals under false pretense. Pretending to be a reporter or a cop. He had contacts who could make excellent fake credentials. Things people had said about the neighborhood set his instincts off. Bits and pieces. Nothing solid.

He needed to confirm that. If he got to someone high enough in the hierarchy. Maybe Escobedo. Or one of his close flunkies.

Soon, he saw them. Four members of the gang on a street corner. Probably pushing drugs. Castle parked in a nearby alley. He checked out his location. He was almost completely in shadows. He was alone. No one could see him. They were under a lamp post. He got out of his van. With a bag. He climbed a nearby fire escape. He made it to a four story building across the street from them.

He could see them clearly. Perfect position for some well placed shots.

He opened his bag...

Later, he put the four thugs in his crosshairs. The magnifying lens allowed him to their faces clearly. The gang colors. Cars driving by. Trading money for small bags. Weed, pills, smack.

He took his shots. Several, just to be sure. Then he went back to ground level. He crossed the street. He wanted to finish the job from up close...

Later, he used the same M.O. Against Perros Locos trying to steal cars. Trying to rob stores after hours. Trying to mug late night pedestrians. He took his shots and finished the job up close and personal. He was at it for the better part of the night.

One more target, and he would call it a night.

An abandoned boxing gym. Closed. Windows boarded up. He knew this was a Perros Locos hang out. Between six and twelve of them would be there at a time. He turned off the van's engine.

Maybe Escobedo was there. Or someone knew where Escobedo would be. He needed to go easier on these ones than the others he took on. These needed to be able to talk. He checked his body armor. The ceramic plating and the Kevlar could stop their weapons.

He loaded his 12 round Striker automatic shotgun with rubber slugs used for crowd control. As long is he didn't hit the eyes or the throat, no one would die.

Except maybe Castle since they probably had live rounds.

Occupational hazard. Came with the job. And he'd died a long time ago.

Time to go to work.

His gear ready, he started up his van again. It was a big, reinforced van. Special bullet proofed tires and windshield. He put it in drive and aimed it at the building. Full speed. It broke through the brick walls. When the dust settled, he saw that there were at least a dozen Perros Locos.

Good. The more he neutralized then, the fewer he'd have to deal with later. The Punisher wasn't one to turn away from such an opportunity. Christmas came early.

He didn't stop the van. He heard yells, cusses, confusion. Most of the gang members opened up on him. No fire discipline. Burning bullets needlessly. They had 9mm pistols, .38s, .357 magnums. Some fired with two handguns. One even had a Remington shotgun. The bullets bounced off the van's armor. He set the Striker at the van window and opened up. He fired at a cluster of four on his left. He sent five rounds their way, being careful to aim for the midsection and lower. Three of them received the projectiles in the stomach. One took a slug in the groin. Castle didn't see it as much as guess from the guy's scream.

The Punisher gave the van a sharp wheel turn and fired away while his vehicle was spinning .

Three more, crouching in the middle of the ring, were knocked out by the riot ammunition.

The weapon clicked empty as four more went down when the van completed the spin. Castle stepped out of the van.

The Perro with the shotgun was closing on Castle. He'd run out of shells and was raising the shotgun over his head, like a club. The Punisher performed a front kick in the thug's midsection. He felt ribs go as the man was knocked away.

The remaining three were closing in on the vigilante. He put his fists up. As they saw him, the recognized the skull painted on his chest.

They had no more ammo. They'd moved to knives. One of them had a switchblade in each hand. He was in the middle.

"So, you're the big, bad, Punisher," the two bladed man said.

Castle recognized his face. "Cuchillo" Valdez. The other two, he didn't recognize.

"You outta bullets, man," Valdez said, "And there's three of us."

Castle said nothing.

"So, now, I'm thinking you-"

The Punisher ran towards him. They all froze. He tackled him. Shoulder into the chest. Over 200 pounds coming in at full speed. Valdez fell on his back, wind knocked out of him, dropping both knives. Castle immediately hit one of the other two on the nose with a vicious reverse elbow strike. That got a scream of pain.

The other snapped out of his shock and went in for a thrusting stab move. Castle had his hands around that man's wrist and performed an aikido throw and tossed him into his broken nose buddy. Both went down in a heap.

He turned his attention to Valdez. Castle kicked away both knives.

"Hey, man, back off...Wait...Don't..."

Castle grabbed two handfuls of jacket hoisted him and slammed him against his van. He lifted him off the ground.

"Look, man...I..."

"Shut up, punk. You and the rest of your scumbag friends have done enough damage. Now, you pay."

The Punisher kept Valdez against the van with hand, with the other, he pulled a large Bowie Knife out of a sheath.

"You call yourself 'Cuchillo' because you like knives. Let's see how you like this one..."

"Wait! No! I got something for you, man, I..."

"You have nothing I need. You call yourselves mad dogs. You know what must be done to mad dogs."

"Wait! Please! I have something! Something big!"

"Talk. While you still have a throat."

Valdez talked. What he said confirmed Castle's hunch. But, The Punisher wanted to be thorough. He would need to double check.


	5. Chapter 5

**Later, that same evening and night**

**Manhattan**

McCall had assembled the equipment he needed, with the help of Kostmayer. Cameras. Microphones. Secure radios. Mobile phones. Everything needed for a sting operation. They'd collected all that hardware with the help of Jimmy. Jimmy, like Kostmayer, was a former colleague of McCall's. Particularly good with surveillance and research. It was him McCall had contacted from the phone booth earlier. He was still looking into McCall's hunch.

It was very late when the Equalizer got home. He was exhausted. Still, he listened to the messages on his machine. The latest had been left just minutes before.

And everything fell apart.

**South Bronx**

**Later**

With a heavy heart, McCall went to the address he was given. There were flashing lights. Squad cars and an ambulance. He'd taken the Jaguar. He got out and approached the police lines. A tall, middle aged, balding, white detective signaled the uniformed cops to let him through.

"You must be McCall, right?"

"Yes."

"Detective Sterns. The kid had your newspaper ad in his pocket. There wasn't anyone else we could call."

"Yes. An only child with his comatose father..."

"Dead."

"What?"

"The father didn't make it."

McCall didn't think it was possible for his heart to sink further. It did.

"According to witnesses," Sterns said, "The kid was mad with grief. He confronted some Perros Locos."

McCall and Sterns walked over to a body covered with a bloodied sheet. Sterns nodded to one of the crime scene technicians. They lifted enough to reveal the face.

McCall remained silent and took in a sharp breath.

"They started by beating him up," Sterns said, "Then, they apparently stabbed and shot him. We don't know in which order yet."

"Does it matter?"

"What"

"Does it bloody matter if he got shot or stabbed first?"

"You seem upset. Did you know him or..."

McCall looked into Sterns' eyes.

"Yes, I am upset! I barely knew him, I've met him once. He was a decent young man who turned to me because the system had failed him!"

McCall looked at the battered young man's face.

"And now, I've failed him as well. And his father," McCall said, in a soft voice.

A cold fury was burning deep with McCall's gut.

"Can't win them all," Sterns said.

That wasn't what McCall wanted to hear. But, it was true, wasn't it?

"You sure you failed him?" Sterns asked.

"What?"

"You have quite a rep, Mister Equalizer, and I have a lot of incidents that are unaccounted for."

"What are you talking about?" McCall didn't know if it was because of a life of paranoia or his current anger at himself, but he was finding less and less tolerable by the second.

"I have six dead gang members shot to death," Sterns said, "And a whole bunch of others that had their butts handed to them. Not some sloppy, ugly beating like this poor kid got. According to my people, we're talking dislocated joints, shattered collar bones, broken wrists and ankles, fractured skulls. Some were attacked with rubber bullets. About two dozen of those guys got jumped. Some of these guys will be stuck with canes and crutches for a good long while. Crippled by someone who knows his stuff. Maybe an ex-intelligence agent, used to covert operations."

"Are you accusing me of something, Detective Sterns?"

"From what I hear, sometimes you work outside the law...This is maybe how you decided to Equalize the odds. I wouldn't blame you if you did, you know."

"Why wouldn't you blame me? Because you recognize your failure in protecting this community? Instead of chasing phantoms, perhaps you should help these people with the gang problem!"

"Hey, now look here, McCall! You think it's easy working a neighborhood like this? It's see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil around here! Witnesses are too scared to talk to the cops. They'd rather move out of the neighborhood than talk to us! What the Hell can we do?"

"What, _indeed_. If you're done, I'll take my leave, now."

"Make sure you're available for questioning!" Sterns said.

McCall was walking away and getting into his car. That was when he saw a patrolman go to Sterns. And whispered something. Sterns reacted explosively:

"Damn it! That's all we needed! _That _nut job!"

That confirmed McCall's suspicions when Sterns told him about the dozen injured gang thugs.

The Punisher had kept busy. And somehow, he managed to keep his word in the bargain. No other deaths besides the shooting McCall and Kostmayer stumbled upon. That was some small vindication at least. A dozen of those scum put out of commission. Part of him wished Castle hadn't kept his promise of sparing the lives of these Mad Dogs, as they called themselves.

McCall drove away. His soul burdened by guilt and anger. He'd failed the Villalobos family. And they'd been decimated.

Julio Villalobos' damaged features danced before his eyes. A young man about Scott's age. Dead. Because he was desperate for justice.

McCall needed to go home and collect his thoughts. He needed to make sense of things. Find a course of action.

Maybe that would help channel the feelings that were running through him at that moment. He needed to cool down.

**Later**

**Manhattan**

**McCall's apartment**

The evening's surprises weren't ending just yet. There was someone in his apartment. In the living room.

A man about McCall's age. White. Well dressed. A full head of salt and pepper hair. To the untrained eye, he might look like a rich CEO.

A trained observer would see more in the intruder's piercing eyes. A man who had seen and done much, like McCall. And was used to being in command. Used to make hard decisions.

Control. McCall's former superior in the Company.

Usually, McCall would be glad to see him.

"What the bloody Hell are you doing here?"

"Good evening to you too, Robert."

"Control, I'm no mood for games. I'm tired."

"And angry. And feeling guilty over what happened to that family."

McCall didn't bother being surprised. Control wouldn't be Control if he didn't...know things. McCall went to fix himself and his old friend a glass of Scotch on the rocks. Soon, they were sitting and drinking.

"Is that why you're in my home at this ungodly hour," McCall asked, "A pep talk?"

"That's one way to look at it," Control said.

"Is there another reason?"

"I just wanted to see how you were."

"You're not going to whine about how I use your staff?"

"What Mickey and Jimmy do on their time off is their business," Control said, "As long as they come back undamaged. They are good operatives and I need them."

"Understood. Anything else?"

"Yes. The Punisher."

"What about him?"

"Are you working with him?"

"Why? You want an evaluation to recruit him into the Company?"

"Nah. Wouldn't waste time with that again."

"Again?"

"We offered him a job, after the Nam, before what happened to his family. He was something else, in country. He was magic with a sniper rifle and pretty fearsome in close quarter combat. He turned us down, said he wanted to focus on his family."

"Wise decision."

"I think so. We even used him before, in the war, to take out some high priority targets. Scary good. He hasn't lost a step."

"I know. You have a problem with me working with him?"

"He feeds on rage and hate, Robert. They way you feel right now...I just...I don't want you to join in on his 'Holy War' and end up in a suicide mission."

"I've met him. He's no more different than any operator or contractor you've met. Cold. Precise. Methodical."

"Sounds like someone I know. Including the sense of honour."

"What makes you say that?"

"You've met him. I'm willing to bet you convinced him to hold off from killing that gang."

"It wasn't that difficult."

"Which confirms what I keep telling: you are the most dangerous man I know."

"Why's that?"

"For one: because you can talk the Punisher out of murder."

McCall chuckled bitterly.

"I had this clever plan, didn't I?" McCall said. "I would install some bugs in the Villalobos store. Have Mickey undercover as a clerk. Record conversations. The gang was sure to show up. We'd have evidence of extortion. We'd collect more evidence, turn it over to the authorities. We would...suggest to one, or more, of the gang members to confess. The police would at least have probable cause. Make some solid arrests. Because these things take time and patience, do they? But the evidence would be irrefutable. Testimony. Audio tapes. Video. Pictures. I was so bloody clever. But too damn slow. I'm done being clever, Control."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

Control exhaled loudly. He went on:

"Truth is, I believe they need to be taken down. I won't argue that. When you rob people of the feeling of safety in their neighborhoods, in their homes, you deserve what's coming to you. Nail those bastards, Robert."

McCall was somewhat surprised. Control usually showed more distance. But he was also a man who cared about what was right.

"I will," McCall said.

"I don't doubt it. Be careful, Old Son," Control said.

They exchanged a look and a nod.

Control stood. So did McCall. Control let himself out.

McCall shut the door. He needed a few hours rest.

Before going to war.


	6. Chapter 6

**McCall's apartment**

**0800 hours**

Sleep hadn't come easily. But it did come eventually. McCall felt somewhat rested. He felt better after some stretching, some exercise and a shower. Soon, his allies showed up, Kostmayer and Jimmy.

Jimmy was a few years younger than McCall. He was a white man, bald, with grey hair on the sides of his head and several worry lines on his face. He dressed in grey and brown. He seemed to have a perpetual sad or disappointed expression on his face. That wasn't helped by the fact that his wife-or ex-wife, it was hard to keep up-and he were on again, off again.

Jimmy had brought coffee and croissants for all three of them. And a file.

McCall and his comrades went to the kitchen for breakfast. McCall got them up to speed on the previous night's events. The death of Julio Villalobos and his father, Ricardo.

There was a short silence. Jimmy broke it first:

"You may have been on to something, McCall. It took me a few hours to piece together."

Jimmy opened the file. There was a black and white picture of a white man in his 30s. Full head of brown hair. Blue-green eyes. Clean shaven and perfect white teeth. Movie star good looks.

"I know that face from somewhere," Kostmayer said, "I got it! He's that face on the real estate ads all over that neighborhood."

"Yup," Jimmy said, "William Huntington, the third, real estate superstar."

"But why would you look this guy up?" Mickey started.

"Maybe...Go ahead, Jimmy."

Jimmy talked around the rest of a bite of croissant: "So, Mister Huntington the third, he has a good nose for business. In the last year, in that neighborhood, gang violence has increased. But the prices for houses and buildings or even stores, hell, even vacant lots has gone down. And Mister Huntington has been buying up like crazy. He has big plans for the Bronx. Condos, malls...Massive gentrification. And tons of money for him for years to come."

"McCall, you think," Kostmayer said, "that moneybags there is behind the rise of gang violence?"

"Besides the gang, Mickey, who benefits from this? His name and face were all over those construction sites and everywhere else," McCall said, "I thought for a second I might have been paranoid. That's why I waited before I told you."

"May I finish?" Jimmy said, "I don't think we have all day here."

McCall smiled. "Go on, Jimmy."

"I was getting to the best part. I mean, sure, we have enough to think he's kind of a keen business man, but not a crooked one, so I looked harder. Thanks to the Company computer, I accessed his banking history. Seems we have some of his personal accounts transferring money to off-shore accounts. Caiman Islands, mainly."

"Classic," Kostmayer said, "Someone's gettin' greased."

"I have two names for the offshore accounts: John Smith and Jack Smith. I'm gussing, fake names."

"Then, we have to look at his books, his accounting," McCall said, "We need to find a ledger where he keeps these types of transactions. Find out who those payoffs are made to."

"How do you suggest we find that?" Kostmayer said.

"We break into his home. And find it," McCall said.

"Uh...Break into his home?" Jimmy said.

"We know the type," McCall said, "He probably has a safe in the house, somewhere. We find the books and have a look at them."

Jimmy and Kostmayer looked at each other.

"For God's sake, gentlemen! We've done this countless times, bugging the homes of diplomats, heads of state..." McCall said.

"We were always doing company business...This time..."Kostmayer said.

"The things we've done in the company are not anymore legal that we are talking about here!" McCall said.

"McCall," Kostmayer said, "Usually, I'm the hothead and Jimmy is the whiner. Well, Jimmy is still the whiner-"

"Hey!" Jimmy said.

"This guy probably has all sorts of security at his home," Kostmayer said, "And he probably lives in a nice neighborhood...where cops usually show up fast."

"Staten Island. Jimmy and I will find a way," McCall said.

"Me?" Jimmy said.

"Him?" Kostmayer said, "What I am I gonna do?"

"If there is a connection between Huntingdon and the gang," McCall said, "He probably made a deal with the leader, Escobedo. With Mr. Castle's help, you will find him. And ask him."

"Like that?" Kostmayer said.

"It will take some doing, Mickey. Escobedo and maybe a trusted lieutenant. To confirm. The rest of the gang are...expendable. Jimmy..."

"Yes, I made a copy of the file," Jimmy said and handed it to Kostmayer.

"We're goin' all the way on this, McCall," Kostmayer said.

"Those thugs have been bullying that neighborhood for too long. And this smug bastard may have hired them for the bullying! They deserve _every ounce of grief_ I can give them! But this is my fight. I'll understand-"

"I'm in, McCall. All in."

McCall looked at Jimmy.

"Oh what the Hell," Jimmy said, "Being dead or going to jail beats paying alimony."

That lightened the mood. A little.

Kostmeyer soon left the apartment. He took a mobile phone with him.

While going to his car, part of his mind almost felt sorry for the enemy.

They managed to the Equalizer and the Punisher going after them.

God help them.

**South Bronx**

**Punisher Safe House**

Kostmayer went to Frank Castle's temporary base in the derelict building.

Castle let him in the apartment.

"McCall's not with you?" Castle greeted.

"Good morning to you, too."

Castle didn't answer.

"No, there are new developments. McCall is busy with the other end of this operation."

"You found out about Huntington paying the Locos, so they could louse up the neighborhood, force people out, buy property cheap."

Kostmeyer was stunned.

"How the Hell did you find out?"

"Escobedo and Valdez told me."

"Wow. McCall told me how busy you were last night. I'm betting you didn't get much sleep."

"How-"

"He overheard it when he spoke to the cops. The Villalobos kid died. So did the comatose father."

Castle's face didn't change. But somehow, his eyes got colder. Harder.

"That family is destroyed," Castle said.

Kostmayer exhaled loudly and nodded.

"He died on our watch," Castle said, "We have to make this right."

"That's the plan. McCall and one of our allies want to collect more Intel. They think Huntington was making payoffs to someone in an offshore account."

"Not these gang idiots," Castle said, "They got cash. Someone else. Maybe Escobedo knows. Let's ask him."

"What?"

Castle walked over to his bathroom and opened the door.

Valdez was on his stomach cuffed to the stall. Escobedo was lying in the tub. Not cuffed, not tied up. Both looked like they'd been worked over some. And had terrified looks on their faces. Terrified.

"How come Escobedo doesn't have handcuffs?" Kostmayer asked.

"I had nothing to cuff him to, so I broke his wrists and ankles and put him in the tub."

Kostmayer looked at Castle and back at the gang members. Crippled and scared. Castle was emotionless. He crippled that guy because it was...the practical solution. Frank Castle was one of the most cold blooded guys he'd ever met. And Kostmayer had met a few.

"Sure. That oughta work," Kostmayer said.

He wasn't particularly comfortable with torture. Though he had no sympathy for these men, he felt a little uneasy.

"So, ask them," Castle said.

"Sure," Kostmayer said, "You morons heard of someone else getting a pay off besides you?"

"Not...Not just heard," Escobedo said. He was in pain. He was trying to focus. "I saw...I saw it..."

"What do you mean, you saw it?" Kostmayer said.

"One time," Escobedo said, "Huntington's guy gave...gave me the cash...Then he gave me...another envelope...And he asked me to wait...Then this guy showed up...A cop...Some kinda detective or somethin'...The guy asked...'Why...did you call...me...here...This ain't how we do things'...Then, he asked me to give the guy...the...cop...the envelope...Then someone took a picture...'Insurance'...Huntington's guy said..."

"He wanted to make sure this cop wouldn't make trouble or get too greedy," Kostmayer said.

"What was the cop's name?" Castle asked.

"I...I can't..."

The Punisher pulled out a .45. "Think harder," he said.

"Stein...No...Sterns...The guy's name was Sterns..."

Kostmayer recognized the name. McCall had told him about an unpleasant cop on the scene. So, they had alliance between a gang and a real estate golden boy and police corruption. McCall never seemed to pick the easy ones. But they sure weren't boring. Castle and Kostmayer left the small bathroom and Castle closed the door.

"The 'no kill' embargo is still on?" Castle asked.

"McCall wouldn't want two crippled and cuffed men killed in cold blood. Me neither."

"Think you could stop me?"

"Wanna find out?"

They locked stares for several long seconds. It was a tense moment. Kostmeyer was ready to fight. He was _always_ ready for a scrap. He wondered if he could take The Punisher. He saw Castle relax, but he still remained tense.

"Not today, Kostmayer," Castle said, putting the gun back in its holster, "He'll probably need these guys to turn them over to someone."

Castle went over to a duffel bag and pulled a strange looking pistol. Kostmayer recognized it and relaxed. It was the sort that fired darts.

"Tranqs," Castle said.

"It's okay, I trust ya," Kostmayer said, smiling.

The vigilante opened the bathroom door. He shot each of the gang members in the neck.

"We'll take them with us, in my van," Castle said.

"You wanna drive around with two unconscious criminals ?" Kostmayer said.

"We're in New York City," Castle said, "Probably happens all the time."

"Uh...And we're gonna carry those guys on our shoulders? In broad daylight? And load them in a van? Also in broad daylight?"

"Yeah," Castle said.

"You're insane," Kostmayer said.

"Yeah," Castle said.

Kostmayer just looked at him. Not many things could surprise him anymore. Castle was being pretty good at it.

"Trust me," Castle said.

And they did. They carried the gang members on their shoulders. Some people saw them. Kostmayer was a bit nervous.

"People are looking at us," Kostmayer said.

"I know," Castle said.

The van's floor was modified so there was a fake floor. Castle pushed a button. The van floor opened. Castle and Kostmayer put the gang members in there. Both were cuffed and sleeping. They'd be out for hours.

The most surprising was the crowd that was forming. They watched Castle and Kostmeyer.

Then, one of the people started applauding. Then it caught on. Then, there were cheers for Castle and Kostmayer. Insults for the gang punks. Some choice words in English and Spanish were spoken. Castle packed his gear in the van, shut the back doors and went to the driver's seat. Kostmayer went to the passenger seat. He brought his gear with him. He'd come back for his car later.

"You knew this would happen?" Kostmayer said.

"This block I used for my safe house was full of Perros Locos. I got rid of them," Castle said, "These people have been bullied for a long time. They have no love for those punks."

"I can see that. Good call," Kostmayer said, "We'll join up with McCall. He's at Huntington's out in Staten Island."

"Yeah?" Castle asked.

Kostmayer told Castle about The Equalizer's plan. And finding the records or ledgers or any evidence that could prove Huntington's bribing of the cop, Sterns. Or any other bribes.

The Punisher had an idea...


	7. Chapter 7

**Staten Island**

**Huntington's home**

Huntington was home. But he was well protected. Cameras. Sensors. Six large goons. An eight foot high wall. A solid steel gate.

After checking out the security measures, McCall and Jimmy, sitting in a van, far enough from Huntington's mansion, they both thought to attempt a break in would be risky. So he had another idea.

"Are you serious?" Jimmy said.

"I am quite serious, Jimmy," McCall said.

"Hm. This reminds me of my divorce."

"What?"

"I loved her so much...It really hurt when it was over..."

"Jimmy, now is hardly the time..."

"I tried to figure out how things had turned out so bad."

"Jimmy..."

"So, I stayed up nights...Trying to understand..."

McCall exhaled. He was beginning to lose patience with his friend.

"For God's sake, Jimmy..."

"And you know what's the worst? The guilt. You start blaming yourself. I thought: 'maybe it was me. I made her unhappy.' And guilt...it tears you apart from inside. You beat yourself up for things that maybe you couldn't possibly have prevented."

McCall smiled. _That clever dog_, he thought.

"McCall," Jimmy said, "You help people. It's honorable. Hell, the way things are, it's necessary. But, you can't save them all. It's a shame that kid and his father died. But don't let that guilt blind you. Feelings get in your head on a job like this...Bad things can happen. You and I both know that."

"Jimmy," McCall said, "I hear what you're saying. I appreciate the thought. But, this man has ruined enough lives. One way or another, it ends today."

"McCall...Your plan, that's just..."

"Crazy? Perhaps. You can still walk away, you know. I said it before-"

"Would you leave me hanging just because things got difficult?"

McCall gave a warm look to his friend. And smiled.

"Thanks, Jimmy."

"Yeah. When we go to jail, I'll take the top bunk."

McCall smiled at the levity. They rehearsed the plan. And soon, McCall said.

"Come on, Jimmy, let's get to it."

Thirty minutes, later, he shows up at Huntington's gate. He's wearing a convincing fake mustache, the same color as his hair, glasses, a baseball cap, gloves and overalls. He was holding a tool box. He buzzed on the intercom.

Horrible static was heard. That was expected.

Soon, a large goon in a suit came to greet him. White, shaved head. Well over six feet tall, very, very wide shoulders. And armed. A pistol under his jacket.

"Yeah?"

McCall did his best Brooklyn accent. Years as an undercover operative made him a decent impersonator.

"We received complaints about lousy reception in the neighborhood," McCall said.

"Yeah, we had that here, too. Phones are down as well," the big man said.

"Thought so. Wanna let me in? Take a look around?" McCall said, concentrating on not breaking character.

The big man opened the gate. They walked all the way to the huge oak doors. The bodyguard opened it.

Of course, there was marble everywhere, high ceilings, high art, chandeliers. It was a rich man's house. Old money.

"Let's look at the phones first," McCall said, still doing his Brooklynite impersonation.

"Follow me," the bigger man said.

They went to a door that was half open. Inside, there was a study. A big, comfortable leather couch. Huge mahogany desk. There was a box of cigars. Heavy marble ashtray. A personal computer. The room smelled of tobacco. Everything looked expensive. Nothing that looked like a ledger. Maybe it was on floppy disk. Someone was struggling with the phones.

Huntington. In the flesh.

"About time," Huntington said by way of greeting. "I need my phones to work! Do something!"

"I'll get right to it, mister..."

"Mister-I-need-my-damn-phone! Get to it!" Huntington said, standing up, leaving room for the "repairman" to do his job.

_They will be working, you self-important, arrogant twit_.

"Gettin' right on it!" McCall said, cheerily, "Could someone shut the door? It could help with the waves and interference!"

"Hurry the Hell up!" Huntington said, annoyed, annoying and stressed, but shutting the door.

McCall went down on one knee

"Hey, big guy!" McCall said, "I need your help for somethin'!"

The bigger security man sighed and walked over.

"See that under the desk?" McCall said, standing back up as the big man bent over.

"Do I see what?"

"Wait," McCall said.

He then pulled a leather sap out of his tool box and hit the big man right on the temple. It was a perfectly placed blow, close to the ear. He hit him once more at the same spot and once more in the back of the head. That did it. The large man fell unconscious.

Huntington froze for a second and was about to open his mouth. A silenced 9mm Beretta 92 also came out of the tool box and was aimed at him.

"Make one sound," McCall said in his normal voice, "And I will end you."

Huntington's face was a mix of fear and outrage.

"Before you start on a 'do you know who I am' monologue, yes, I damn well who the Hell you are. That's why I'm here. "

McCall tossed two pairs of handcuffs at Huntington. "Cuff your man's wrists and ankles. Hurry."

"If you think-"

McCall pulled back the pistol's hammer. That cut off Huntington's eventual "you can't get away with this" tirade. Huntington finished cuffing his man.

"Sit down," McCall said.

The real estate mogul sat down in his chair behind his desk.

"You'll no doubt wonder who I am. My name is irrelevant, Huntington," McCall started, "How the rest of this conversation goes depends on your willingness to live."

Huntington didn't answer.

"You may speak, now," McCall said.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to ease your soul," McCall said.

"What?"

"That is...if you have one, which I doubt."

"What the hell..."

"South Bronx."

Huntington remained quiet.

"Your face is plastered all over the neighborhood. Construction and demolition. There you are. The face of gentrification. I was there, on business. Business related to the gang problem. And I thought: 'What if that vapid looking jackass were actually behind the spike in gang violence as a ploy to lower property value, force people to move out quickly. They would have to sell cheap and that vain bastard could make a killing, so to speak.' I thought I was being paranoid or cynical, but I had you checked out. It took some doing, but we found evidence of bribes. To police and other officials."

McCall was bluffing. He didn't have names, but he wanted to rattle Huntington.

"So?" Huntington asked.

"So...There was a time I would have killed you in your sleep. Or poisoned your coffee. Or bombed your car. I'm trying to move on from my former self, but old habits die hard. Confess, clear your conscience, turn yourself in to the authorities. That certainly is a better than taking a bullet to the head."

By then, the device Jimmy had been using to scramble the radios, televisions and telephones had been deactivated. And the microphone McCall was wearing was recording.

Huntington was stunned for a second. Then, his eyes changed and he smiled. Damn it, McCall thought.

"You're some kind of...vigilante, like something from a comic book," Huntington said, "Like that Punisher lunatic. If you had that evidence, you would have shot me already...or the cops would have come crashing in. I think you have it in you to kill me, but you have absolutely no proof. And you can't pull that trigger unless you're a hundred percent sure."

Huntington was smug, now. Confident. And he was right. McCall walked over to him, extended the pistol in Huntington's face.

"You're right," McCall said, "I have no evidence. But an innocent man would have begged, would have claimed there was a mistake, would have shown signs of confusion and terror. Trust me, I know guilty from innocent, you narcissistic parasite."

With his free hand, McCall smacked Huntington on the ear and knocked him from his chair. McCall stepped closer to him and stood over him.

"A clever boy like you," McCall said, "You'd want insurance. You need to have your associates feel like you own them. You'd have something to blackmail them. A file. A ledger. Recordings. Anything. Anything to feed your hunger for power."

McCall grabbed the dazed golden boy by the shirt. That smug expression was gone now. He pressed the pistol's barrel on Huntington's cheek. A cold thing in his gut was stirring. Ice cold anger. He was thinking of the Villalobos family and could not tolerate the idea that this scum would escape justice.

"Save your life, Huntington," McCall said, "Turn over those files or ledgers or computer disks. Or-"

The study's door was kicked open. The rest of Huntington's security force. Five big men, armed with pistols. McCall grabbed Huntington and used him as a shield.

"No, stop, don't shoot!" Huntington said, terrified.

His goon squad hesitated.

"Put your weapons down, or your boss dies," McCall said in deadly serious, cold voice.

"You can't get out of here!" Huntington said.

"Yes," McCall said, very calmly, "You're right, I can't. And now, you have me trapped. I'm armed, desperate and cornered. I've been in situations like this before. Hundreds of times. I'm still alive. What do you think happened to those other men, hm?"

"Put your guns down!" Huntington said to his men, "This man is crazy! Put your guns down!"

They dropped their pistols to the ground.

"Those are nice lads," McCall said, "Kick those guns over here."

They did.

"Now, slowly, walk backwards out of the room."

They did.

"Lay down on the floor!" That was done as well.

There was a buzzer sound. Someone was at the gate.

"Have one of your goons check it out," McCall ordered Huntington.

One of them did. Came back second later:

"Boss...It's...uh...The Punisher."

McCall smiled. Things seemed to be looking up."Let him in," McCall said.

A short while later, Kostmayer, Castle –both armed with silenced Colt .45 pistols- and three more guests arrived to the party.

"Oh, no..." Huntington said.

Castle was carrying Escobedo on a shoulder. He dropped him on the floor without much care. Kostmayer pushed Sterns and Valdez on the couch.

"I told them everything, Huntington. They recorded it. It's over," Sterns said.

"You...stupid...stupid..."

"Huntington..." Escobedo said, "This...it's done, man..."

"I can't believe this...Billions of dollars..." Huntington said.

McCall went over to Kostmayer and Castle. They were at the door.

Kostmayer whispered: "Golden boy's kinda falling apart."

McCall: "I certainly hope so."

Castle said nothing.

"All you had to do, was do what you were told!" Huntington said. To Valdez: "You stupid thugs had to do what you always did, just step it up a bit, to drive those people out!" To Sterns: "And you, just take the money and close your eyes. How difficult was that!"

Huntington, then, was talking to himself, seemingly: "I can still make this work...I'm not going to jail...Only one thing I can do..."

He picked up one of his thug's guns. Sterns, a dirty cop, but a cop nonetheless, obeyed to his training and grabbed a gun as well. Valdez grabbed two and aimed one at Sterns, one at Huntington. Reflex. Escobedo was on the floor, crippled. And scared.

"Whoa," Kostmayer said.

"This cannot end well," McCall said.

Castle said nothing.

"Easy, Huntington, easy," Sterns said.

"I'm not going to jail...You guys...You won't bring me down..."

"Hey, man," Valdez said, "You need..."

"Shut up! You're an armed gang member in my home. Self defense..."

"You're losin' it, man..." Valdez said.

"Huntington..." Sterns said, "Don't..."

"Yeah, you gotta-"

A shot went off from Huntington's gun and hit Valdez square in the chest. He didn't die right away, but was on the way down. However, he squeezed the triggers from both his guns. Huntington took one in the stomach, one in the chest. Sterns took one in the chest as well. His finger tightened on his trigger. But he was already falling as he was shooting. His bullets hit the prone Escobedo. One of Valdez's pistols also lowered and two more shots went into Escobedo.

And then, it was over.

All four of them. Dead.

McCall, Kostmayer and Castle had ducked during the small exchange, to avoid catching a stray bullet. But they had seen everything.

"Wow," Kostmayer said.

"You were wrong, McCall," Castle said, finally speaking up.

"How's that?" McCall said.

Castle tossed the dead men another glance.

"It _did_ end well."

"Let's get the hell out of here," McCall said.

They left, along with a very confused Jimmy.


	8. Chapter 8

**EPILOGUE**

**The Docks**

**The evening**

Jimmy had edited the recording to keep only the part where Huntington broke down and confessed. He sent copies to One Police Plaza and to several media outlets. The Punisher had also taken several rolls of film, capturing Perros Locos committing criminal acts. Those films had also been sent. Massive gang arrests have been made in the past hours. Then he went home. Or to his ex-wife. McCall, Castle and Kostmayer were standing next to the East River, watching the city.

"This has been an interesting two days," Kostmayer said.

He looked at Castle and McCall. Back at Castle:

"It's been fun. Take care."

Castle responded with a nod. Kostmayer went to McCall's Jaguar.

"Would have been simpler if I'd killed the gang punks in the Bronx and you'd killed Huntington in his house," Castle said.

"That's true," McCall said, "But I wanted justice, not just revenge. I would liked to have seen them all hauled in by the police and answer for their crimes. Besides, I'm trying to move from what I once was. But I was tempted. Believe me."

McCall looked to Castle.

"You could have disregarded my request the other night. You could have slaughtered all those Perros Locos. Why didn't you?"

"I told you I wouldn't."

"Still."

"I give my word to a soldier from the same side, I try to keep it. Besides, like you said, I wanted to keep the Villalobos clean."

"Hm. You were right as well, Frank."

"Yeah?"

"This city...It needs men like us. People who do the dirty work in the shadows."

"It needs you, anyway."

"Why me?"

"You're still a believer."

"I never thought I could be considered an optimist."

"Compared to me, you are."

"You believe what you do is pointless? In the long run?"

"I do what I can. Those I put down can't harm others anymore. The best I can do."

"That's the best any of us can do, really."

McCall extended his hand.

"Until we fall," McCall said, "we must keep Punishing the guilty."

Castle took McCall's hand, "and Equalizing the odds for the innocent."

Then, the Equalizer and The Punisher went their separate ways.

As McCall was walking towards his car, his car phone rang. He reached the car, sat down behind the wheel and answered.

Someone else, somewhere in the city needed help.

There was work to do.


End file.
